“Okay,” she said, all business now. “The key is in the extension. Hockey players cross over for speed, but figure skaters cross over for flow. You want it to look easy even when it’s not.”
I loved this side of Harlow. I was starting to realize I liked a lot more sides of Harlow than I wanted to admit.
She demonstrated the movement with her free leg. “See how I’m extending through my ankle? That’s what creates the line.”
I tried to mimic it, stumbled, and nearly face-planted.
Her hand tightened on mine, steadying me. “Wow. That was...”
My face split into a grin. “Graceful?”
“I was going to say tragic, but sure, we’ll go with graceful. Let’s try it slower.”
We moved together around the curve of the rink. She guided me through the movements with minimal mockery. Her hand stayed in mine, anchoring me, and I found myself paying less attention to my footwork and more attention to the way she bit her lip when she concentrated or the way her hand fit perfectly in mine.
I spent a lot of time on this ice growing up, mostly with Jax, Kaia, or Cam, and it never felt this right like I was exactly where and with who I was supposed to be for the first time in my life.
“Better,” she said after a few laps. “But you’re still thinking too hard.”
“Story of my life.”
She glanced up at me. “What do you mean?”
“Thinking too hard.” I shrugged, not sure why I was admitting that. “I do it constantly. Overthink everything until I’ve convinced myself out of what I actually want.”
“And what do you actually want?”
We stopped skating, standing together near center ice, hands still clasped.
“Harlow...” Her name came out rough.
She slid closer. Or maybe I did. Maybe we both moved at the same time, drawn together by something neither of us could control. Her chin tilted up, her lips parting slightly.
My free hand came up to cup her cheek. Her skin was cool from the cold, soft beneath my calloused palm. Her eyes fluttered half-closed as she leaned into the touch.
I wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.
I could imagine exactly how it would feel, her lips against mine, cold at first from the arena but warming quickly. The taste of her, finally, after all this time. The sound she would make when I pulled her closer.
Over her shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the arena clock. 6:45 a.m. The rink would be full of Coaches and skaters soon. An audience for whatever this was, whatever we were becoming.
And all I could hear was the voice in my head, the one screaming at me: She deserves better. She deserves someone who isn’t her brother’s best friend. Someone who didn’t already hurt her once. Someone who isn’t you.
I pulled back.
“Owen?”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out strangled. “I can’t… We can’t…”
“Right.” She slid back, and her hand slipped from mine. “Of course.”
“Harlow, it’s not that I don’t want…”
“You don’t have to explain.” Her voice was flat, controlled, and somehow that was worse than if she yelled. “You’ve made yourself very clear. Multiple times now.”
“That’s not…”
“I should go.” She was already skating toward the exit, her posture rigid with defeat. “Thanks for the lesson.”
